by Jodi Linton
I guess I’d been silly to assume Gunner planned on proposing to me this past Christmas Eve. Old-fashioned, even. Instead, Santa gifted me the loss of one friend, the welcoming of an old foe, and the ten millionth heartbreak by a man who’d laid claim to me over a decade ago. I slid down, back scraping against the mattress, tears pooling in my eyes, and with a heart strained to the max.
In the darkness, I fished out my iPhone from my back pocket and dialed my lifeline.
The line clicked on immediately. “Missing me already?” Colt answered in a drawl.
“Would it make me pathetic if I said yes?”
He chuckled. “I’m just as pathetic as you, Briggs.”
My head fell back, and I let out a dog-tired sigh. “Please tell me you found some dirt?”
“How dirty do I need to be?” he responded, sleepily. “Kill a man, or arrest one for murder?”
“Don’t test me,” I said.
I heard the phone rustle against his ear, then his thick country twang poured back over the line. It sucked how comforted it made me feel. “You bring your treasures and I’ll bring mine… Say, tomorrow morning, your place, around ten. I’m still gathering up some leads that are being slightly trickier than expected, but I should have everything we need in the mornin’.” He paused. It seemed to drag on longer than one of my dad’s war stories. “You doing okay?” Colt asked. “You know, being in that big farmhouse alone on Christmas can’t be easy.”
The idea of confiding in yet another man didn’t settle too well. Especially one tied to the law.
“I’m fine,” I replied, dryly.
“Got anything to report on the ranger?” he asked with a deep chuckle. “Anything new on Luke Wagner or where he was arraigned?”
I decided to keep my last-minute booty call experience close to the heart.
“No word yet.”
“Briggs, I’ve been thinking…” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “About what I said earlier in terms of my old partner.” He paused. “You think maybe we could keep that stuff just between you and me.”
I wanted to chuck the phone across the room. It was as if I was every damn cowboy’s personal Pandora’s box. Instead I swallowed the bitterness down and answered, “Sure thing, Marshal.”
The sound of a woman’s laughter bled out loud and clear from Colt’s end of the line, making my nasty mood hit rock bottom.
“Wear something warm when we meet, Briggs,” he whispered, the heat in his voice killing me all over again. Then that all-male cocky tone faded off in a direction holding more appeal than it did for me. “Give me a sec, babe,” he called, voice raspy and low. “Briggs, you still there?”
I hung up without uttering a word, knowing that a bargain with the devil for another nightcap would have had my life as I knew it flushing down the toilet quicker than a dead goldfish.
Chapter Seven
Laney
The whining, low murmur of the alarm clock stirred me awake. I rolled over, my hand running across the cold rumpled space of the bed just mere inches away. It took me a split second for the confusion to turn into memories of Gunner dragging Luke off in cuffs. Blinking, I winced at the unpleasant feel of crust lining my eyelids. Bright numbers flashed into sight. Ten o’clock. Damn, overslept again. Squinting one eye open, and then the next, I reluctantly admitted it was time to start a new day. I begrudgingly slid out of bed and did the zombie walk of shame into the bathroom. After I turned on the shower, steam quickly filled the tiny bathroom. I shucked my plaid pajama bottoms and white tank top and stepped, dazed in sleep, under the showerhead. Water dribbled down my spine, pooling beneath my chipped scarlet-painted toenails. I wiggled my toes, soaking in the buildup of steam encasing the claw-foot tub. In my heart I was so tired of being played a fool, and yet I kept allowing that wall I’d built against the storm to crumble with just a wink tossed my way by a clever, sweet-talking cowboy.
Heat soothed the soul, and for the moment mended a wounded heart. As I inched a washcloth down my stomach, images of Gunner fluttered about my fogged-up and confused head. All I could think about was the building arousal blossoming in my belly each time I thought about the way those tight-assed Wranglers hung low and snug around his narrow-hip swagger. About the ripped muscles of his tan, chiseled back as he bent down to remove those screw-my-brains-out-cowboy jeans. It was bad news. And then I started thinking about the lines of his rock-hard abs, and that devilish black rattlesnake tattoo soaked in sweat as he towered over my body, teasing sweet promises of burying himself deep inside me. And then how it would feel to be pinned beneath the sinfully delectable cowboy as his mouth licked, bit, and suckled my firm, tender nipple. My hand moved a smidgen below my belly button, my fingers dragging a trail of water toward the scorching heat burning me up in a wildfire of desire. Damn, I ached to have him touch me, reach me, claim me like…well, before the arrest. And then I remembered nothing would ever be the same between us and gave up on the hard-core fantasy. After scrubbing my skin with a washcloth several more times, I concluded spending the day with a raw ass wouldn’t be pleasant and shut off the water.
Feet dripping wet, I padded across the hardwood floors and flung open the closet door. My blood was pumping for oil inside me as I skimmed past Gunner’s black T-shirts and starched Wranglers. Clammy palms graced the sides of my thighs, and my head was spinning more out of control than a Tilt-A-Whirl ride at the county fair. I was about to hit a dive strip club with a federal marshal who would put George Clooney to shame in the womanizing department.
The doorbell rang, and I practically jumped out of my skin. Scrambling about the dozen boot boxes, I pulled down the sluttiest ensemble lining my closet walls—one black pleather miniskirt and a white nylon tank top—slipped on a pair of flashy red pumps that still carried the price tags, and tossed my ratty, bedhead hair up in a bun on top of my head. After a quick glance in the mirror, I concluded I had pulled off the small-town-barfly look without a hitch. Well, mostly.
As I lumbered down the stairs, nerves shot and a ball of antsy-pantsy brewing in the pit of my belly, I grabbed my 9mm off the hallway table, stuffed it in my purse, and made my way to the front door and opened it. Two scuffed-up gray cowboy boots made themselves at home on the dingy brown shag carpet. A coffee cup and a bag of powdered doughnuts shot into view. Nice timing, Marshal.
I eyeballed the doughnuts. “Looks like you had a restful night.”
“I always sleep like a baby.” One corner of his mouth turned up as he dropped a shoulder. “Wanna peek inside the bag?” He killed me with one of his wickedly smooth winks.
“Please, keep all the dirty details to yourself,” I said, snatching the Hostess bag out of his hand. “And thanks for remembering my favorite breakfast item.”
Colt swayed back in his boots. “You’re mighty welcome,” he said, taking a sip from the Styrofoam cup of coffee. “By the way, Briggs…”
“Huh?” I asked through a bite of doughnut.
He grinned, and it was so pretty I almost got lost. “You were the headlining act of my dreams.”
Oh, god.
“I sure hope I lived up to your waking fantasies of me.” I shoved the rest of the doughnut in my mouth, smiling.
Pulling the door open, Colt took a step backward. “Now if I could only experience the real thing.” He laughed, then checked his watch. “You’ve got two minutes to grab your badge and pistol, Ms. Briggs, before I drag your ass out to my Jeep.”
Five minutes and a package of Hostess powdered doughnuts later, I found myself saddled up next to Colt in his red Jeep Wrangler barreling down the freeway. We coasted into a suburban neighborhood reminiscent of The Stepford Wives. Rows and rows of white picket fences surrounding cookie-cutter houses brightly screaming all the colors of the rainbow occupied the pristine spread. Colt slowed down to an idle and pulled over at the curb, parking the Jeep near a large oak tree. I turned and stared out my fogged-up window. The two-story house with robin’s-egg-blue siding was situated on the corner o
f a major highway and a pedestrian street. My brown hair was squished against my cold cheeks, and the thumbnail-size space considered to properly house legs beneath the dashboard was about to get the best of me. Damn glad I’d never folded and allowed Gunner to buy that Jeep he’d pouted about for months. I unlatched my seat belt, then tugged up the neckline of my top and puffed out a chilly breath. As it was, since embarking on this shit-tastic journey of clearing Luke’s name, the first promising lead we’d acquired happened to be a titty bar. Not entirely seeing the light at the end of the tunnel on this fine December morning, and if Mr. Women Flock to My Cock Like Bees to Honey didn’t put an end to the coffee slurping, Luke and I might become next-door neighbors in the crowbar hotel.
I eyed my marshal friend down. “I thought this buddy of yours said Hannah Roberts was working at Pokey’s Strip Club.” He sat still as a rock. “Mind explaining to me why the best damn intel you got happens to do with someone I already knew Luke crossed paths with? Hannah was the last person to see Luke before I watched him get arrested.”
Colt annoyingly sipped away at the coffee cradled in his glove-covered hands. “She does. Pokey’s is just a few blocks from here. The word on the street is that your boy Mr. Wagner was making some business dealings with Danny Redbud,” he muttered, gaze focused on the green Toyota 4x4 parked in the driveway. “And if we are to believe the information my man provided, Redbud isn’t just some damn melon farmer. He’s Dirty Southern Mafia royalty…but you and I first need to have a little talk before storming in to question one of his girls.”
Sometimes I found it best to keep certain information to myself—that I already knew about Redbud striking up a deal with Luke happened to be one of them. Besides, there was no telling which man in my life could be telling lies so I kept mum and filed away the knowledge that Redbud, the drugs, and maybe even Luke’s arrest all had something to do with the Dirty Southern Mafia.
When I was a little girl my father had told me stories about the Dirty Southern Mafia and how folks believed most of the wealth in town, including the Wagners’ hard-earned cash, came from getting in bed with the lethal band of criminals. So it came as no surprise I was hearing about their connection shuffling back into Pistol Rock.
“Talk? Well, what the hell about?” I asked, my nerves on end.
I heard a lock click, and then Colt turned toward me. “Yep. Talk, Briggs,” Colt confirmed by stretching out a callused hand and placing it firmly on my thigh. “I need to know you are up for the job. Pokey’s isn’t for the faint of heart, Laney. The place offers up more than a little tassel shaking.” He set the cooled coffee in the cup holder. “Stick by me. And for the love of god, do not wander off. Got it?” Colt lifted a questioning brow, that heated stare of his blistering up and down the length of my body.
Feigning indifference, I shook off the so-not-even-close-to-friendly look. “I think you might be forgetting I’ve seen my cousin’s pecker at a whorehouse.” I lifted my chin at the bullheaded lawman and pulled my best impersonation of one of Gunner’s Dirty Harry grins.
Colt shrugged. “Point taken. So”—he glanced out the window again—“my old partner worked undercover on the Redbud farm for three years trying to nail the bastard on drug charges linked to a string of Molly deaths, but nothing ever panned out.” He lifted a long, jean-clad leg and pushed down on the gas pedal. “Isn’t that what your cousin Wyatt was pushing around town with his idiot loser friend?”
I gave him a tight smile. Yep, my idiot cousin and his dick-brain friend Mule.
He shifted gears, talking as he pulled away from the curb. “It seems Redbud has everyone in town in his pockets.”
“If Danny Redbud is so dirty, then why would Gunner arrest Luke on his word alone?” Colt strained his neck, glaring in my direction, his nostrils flaring and that damn vein in his neck pulsing like a stereo blasting rap music. “Gunner ain’t some fucking idiot. Nothing is making sense here, Larsen.”
The Stetson slipped back, pinning me in place with a pair of smoky, cold gray eyes. “If Gunner didn’t have his head stuck so far up his ass on this case”—Colt snorted—“then, yeah, he’d have been able to see straight.” He reached out and cupped my shoulder, then squeezed reassuringly. “That boyfriend of yours has it out for the Wagner boy.” His gaze slid down to my lips, then locked back into focus, gaining my attention once more. “I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that you and Luke fooled around or something of that nature, so Wilson intends on washing the earth of any competition.”
Well, if that wasn’t brazen. And hell, all these years I was under the impression Gunner had never caught wind of the night I couldn’t remember a single thing about to save my life.
I flicked his hand off my shoulder. “Where did you hear that nonsense?” I grumbled, edging closer to the door.
“Honey pie”—that mesmerizing hunky smirk crept into his cheekbones, showcasing those knee-knocker dimples—“all that damn boyfriend of yours ever talked about in Houston was either how you shot him in the ass or that he’d make some guy named Wagner pay for touching his girl. Give Wilson some tequila, and hell, that man gets pretty goddamn colorful about the details of the night that hosed the two of y’all over.”
I gulped. Waving off the discomfort, I simply replied, “Shouldn’t believe the gossip mill.” A warm gloved hand caught me up by the elbow.
“Holy shit.” Colt chuckled deeply, working my lady parts into overdrive. His gaze settled on mine. “You don’t remember a fucking a thing about that night, do you?”
Okay, there might be two cowboys saying their last rites before the end of this trip.
Pursing my lips, I scowled at the marshal. “Stay on topic, Larsen.”
He grinned. “My new goal, besides clearing Luke Wagner’s name”—he slung both arms across his wide chest, laughing, as he continued with the childish teasing—“is getting you drunk so you’ll spill the beans.”
I shot him the bird and slumped down in my seat to sulk. “The last time I got drunk off my ass with a good-looking cowboy I woke up butt naked in his bed the next morning.”
“I can live with that, too.” Colt’s smooth country-boy twang whistled in my ears.
Shit, I must be in the market for a death wish.
It was the working’s man lunch hour when we coasted up to Pokey’s Strip Club. On top of it, I had to put up with Colt whistling to every damn country song that came on the radio, and if he didn’t stop I had half a mind to give him something to hum about instead. I hated whistling as much as I despised camping and guys that brought guitars to a party.
The Jeep came to a stop in the parking lot of a run-down strip mall. We’d obviously left the trendier part of Odessa. Colt killed the grumbling engine, then turned my way, slinging a muscular forearm to rest behind my head. Way too close for my inner wild child. I felt his callused fingers gently touch the nape of my neck as he gradually moved his fingers to my chin and tipped my head in his direction.
I shot him a stone-cold look. “Unless you want a handicap tag to hang on your rearview, I’d suggest you keep those fingers to yourself.”
A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. “Easy, now. Your makeup was smudged,” he said and shrugged, dropping the arm down on the console.
“Nice try, Marshal, but I’m not wearing any makeup,” I fired back, thinking I had him in a corner.
His eyes perked as he tilted up his Stetson and gave me a dirty stare.
“Is that all you’re not wearing today, Laney?” he asked, sounding like my dad’s drinking buddy “Uncle” Fuzzy. As a little girl, I was under my mother’s strict orders to never hug that man.
“You’ll never know,” I answered, taking in an eyeful of the seedy strip mall. I adjusted myself in the seat to gain a better view of the honey spot of the moment. “This is it?” I asked, peering out the windshield at what could only be described as the armpit of Odessa. Aside from the taqueria at the far end of the place, the only other businesses to occu
py the beige stucco seventies-style strip mall was a discoteca selling CDs and an adult book store. I had the same feeling I always get when I have to use a port-a-potty. No matter how bad I didn’t want to go in that place, my situation didn’t allow me the choice.
Scanning the crumpled napkin on the dashboard, Colt smiled. “Looks like it. Whatcha think?”
“It makes Pistol Rock seem kinda quaint in comparison, doesn’t it?” I offered.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, his voice dropping to a low sexual hum.
I reached for the door handle and sighed. “Let’s do this.”
“I’m right behind you,” he replied, opening his door and easing himself to the ground.
I took a deep breath before I opened my door and jumped out, then made my way to the front of the Jeep, where Colt was standing with one helluva devilish grin slashed across his face. He spit at the asphalt. I watched him push the brim of his Stetson up along his forehead to gain a better view. He laughed, crossing his bulging, muscular arms about his wide flannel-covered chest. I could’ve ignored him, but if ignoring assholes was a skill of mine, I probably wouldn’t have been in half the shit in my life so far.
“What are you smiling at?” I asked.
He stepped closer to me so I would have to look up into those endless gray eyes of his. “You really don’t want to go in there, do you,” he said more than he asked.
“No, I don’t,” I answered in what might have sounded like a whiny voice, “but it isn’t like we’ve got a choice, so let’s get it over with.”